


Unwanted/Loved

by sehn_sucht



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Arkanis (Star Wars), Brendol Hux Sucks, Character Death, Complex Mother-Son Relationship, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Forced Pregnancy, Hux's Mom Deserved Better, Hux's Mom Dies in This, Hux's Mom isn't Named, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Maratelle Hux Sucks, Mother-Son Relationship, Physical Abuse, The Start of Hux's Issues, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:53:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22515034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sehn_sucht/pseuds/sehn_sucht
Summary: He would grow to take on the worst qualities of his father. He would be cruel, he would be vicious, he would hate and destroy everything he touched. He would ruin lives and bring damnation and destruction upon all those he met. But the moment he left her body and was placed in her arms, she wished he would become none of those things. She prayed with her dying breath that something in him would be good.-The story of the woman who would never call herself Armitage Hux's mother.
Relationships: Armitage Hux's Mother & Brendol Hux, Armitage Hux's Mother/Brendol Hux
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	Unwanted/Loved

She truthfully didn’t know how she was living still. It couldn’t be willpower because if it was, she would have died hundreds of times and wasted the life growing inside of her. Many times she had prayed for the babe to pass away quietly. It would be better than being born to a man who did not even want him. It was better than being born to a tyrant and being raised to succeed that tyrant.

A part of her feared the babe wouldn’t live that long. Maybe the little one in her womb would die after he was born. The medical droids had made mention of how small he was and how he would need constant monitoring.

He. She had been so sure it was a he. Mainly out of fear that if she had been carrying a girl, the little one would have been subjected to the same treatment it’s mother had.

She was a strong woman; she would like to think. Working in the hot kitchens of the Hux properties required a sort of inner strength as well as physical. She constantly had to lift heavy pots, balance trays of full meals, as well as help unload supplies of food weekly and sometimes even daily. She was a strong-willed woman, too, but who was content with her position to serve. She longed for simple things to make her happy but it would serve her personal happiness. That was enough for her.

Of course working in the kitchens wasn’t ideal but it offered her a chance to be a part of something important. In a way, if she truly thought about it, she held the power of this section of the Empire. The health of Commandant Hux and his wife was paramount to the health of the Empire. When they had guests, it was her duty to ensure they were well-fed as well. It was a concentrated sense of power but she clung to it. It strengthened her on her weaker days.

She had to be strong to work for Brendol and Maratelle Hux. Both were incredibly tense individuals. Brendol Hux’s temper was more measured than Maratelle’s.

Mistress Maratelle was a woman of thirty-six human years. She was two years older than her husband which was a point that she often bemoaned. She was elegant with black hair that fell in curls to just below her shoulders. Her features were severe and the shade of her lips was always swathed in a dark, burgundy shade of cosmetic. Other servants whispered that the color of her lip cosmetic signaled her mood. Her baseline was often the burgundy. Angry moods were marked by red. True fury was known when the lip cosmetic was off but the outline of her lips was stained and pale red. Then it was known the mistress had taken her hand to a servant or to decommission a droid.

There was a room down the hall from the kitchens that was always closed. Initially, no one knew what it would be used for. It was barely big enough to contain three standing people. But on the third day, when the master had received report that his new recruits wouldn’t be arriving for another week, he had taken a young lad who worked in the woods into the room. His screams were not muffled. Even those who worked in the kitchens could hear his shouts of pain and the pleading for his mother. His mother would not receive the same boy. His face was marked by angry gashes down his face and his left eye never quite lost its red hue. A permanent limp stuck with him and he trembled at anything that sounded like a whip.

The master wasn’t finished with him. In fact, he seemed to favor him in order to take out his temper. Bits of the boy’s sunny personality began to fall away until he was nothing more than a walking slab of flesh. Months later, the boy suffered what the medical droids called an acute seizure and fell on top of an ax he had been using to cut wood for the large fires.

Mistress Maratelle was just as cruel as her husband but her punishments were rarely as physically punishing. No it was the mind that deteriorated as a result of the mistress. Hair was often pulled or cut to symbolize wrongdoing. It was shorn in an ugly way. Vanity could not be saved. The women who worked in the household could not be perceived as more beautiful than the mistress. Their children were kept away from them; mostly with their husbands or families in town. Only once a week were the servants permitted to return to town and see their families. It was a time they all longed for.

She, herself, had parents who worked in the fishing economy. Arkanisian waters were ripe for fishing but it didn’t bring enough money in. She had offered herself in servitude to the Hux family knowing their name secured steady pay. With enough work over the years, she would be able to eventually afford her own home and own way of life, especially if the Huxes rose through the ranks of the Empire.

One day, she hoped to marry her sweetheart. She would have enough money to buy their home and start her own business if she wanted. Most of all, she wanted to be the mother of his children. Never before did she want to be a mother until she met him. He was also a fisherman and a trader who had a good deal of wealth coming in. He loved her dearly; he honored her as men should honor all those who they meet. He called on her when she visited her home and brought enough for a meal. He cared for her parents when she was away at the Hux Estate and he sent her back to her work with a love letter tucked in her apron.

He loved her and she loved him. She wanted to marry him as soon as she could. She wanted him to be the only man who knew her from that point forward. She wanted him to be the only man between her legs, the only man to ever be inside of her and know who she truly was. Her soul was his and no one else’s in this world or the next.

She had never planned to be noticed by the master of the house. Being noticed came in black and white; either it was for a good deed or it was because you committed an unknown sin and would have to pay for it. Thinking back to it, she looked upon being noticed as a sin.

First it was a query as to her name. She gave it respectfully and answered his questions: She worked in the kitchens, she was not young but she was also not old. Yes, thank you for the compliment on your food. Anything to serve the greater good of the Empire. Anything to serve your family and to keep you happy.

He asked if she liked it. She was indifferent to the matter and said so. Her duty was to serve. If she were to serve in the kitchens, she served in the kitchens. If the Emperor himself asked her to serve in his army, she would do so obediently.

She knew the score. Obey and live. Disobey and die.

He seemed to like her answers. He liked the honesty she presented to him. She thought that had been all from the handsome commandant. He had walked away from her and she thought it was the end of it all.

It wasn’t courting at all. It wasn’t invited courting, either. He had a wife who was cruel in her nature. She didn’t want to be on the receiving end of his attention. She didn’t want his attention at all. Her heart belonged to her sweetheart and only to him. That is how it would remain for the rest of her life.

It started small at first. He would touch her hand in thanks after she served dinner or cleared the plates. Then he would grab her wrist and stop her before she left the kitchens. He would inform her she needed to clean to burners. No food remnants or dirt to be left. There would be no vermin in the kitchens. She would obey because what other option was there for her? She couldn’t tell him no.

He would watch her. She felt it but never said a thing. Anyone who spoke back to the master would be treated like the boy had been. A walking, suffering slab of meat that had once been a person. She wanted to live. She would live so she said nothing. Nothing was said as he began to close the distance between them. She said nothing when he made comments on how her body looked or how she filled out the uniform of the kitchen workers. Comments like that were not unheard of.

But it was different when he had begun to act.

It had been nearly two months of him watching her, carefully accelerating with his own actions. He didn’t touch her when it was the two of them in the kitchens. In fact, he didn’t have to. His comments were more violating than any touch he could lay upon her. That was what she believed. She thought she could shove him aside, wound his pride and his privates at the same time and he would never bother her again.

But when he grabbed her waist and her elbow drove into his ribs she found that it served to enrage him.

He had thrown her to the floor and slapped her face until it stung red. He squeezed her wrists until they bruised and pinned them above her head. Her shoulders ached and screamed for relief but Brendol did not let her go.

Her body fought to get away but his repeated blows to her face quelled the fight in her. He didn’t force himself inside of her then but he touched her. By whatever power was out there, he touched her in a way that betrayed all the vows she had made to herself and to her beloved. It was all wrong. She didn’t want to react in the way her body did but she could not control it. He seemed pleased that she liked how he touched her. It was all she could do to prevent herself from saying no, she didn’t.

No amount of scrubbing could wash away the feeling of Brendol’s hands on her. The very insides of her thighs were scrubbed raw that night when she returned to the Servant’s House on the edge of the property. She barely slept. Her stomach seemed to be consuming itself as she walked the familiar path to the estate house the next morning to ready for breakfast. One look at the mistress and her husband and she wanted to vomit.

That night the master and mistress had gotten into an argument. It was impossible to not hear it, even from the kitchens below the dining hall. Maratelle’s shrill voice and the breaking of glasses thudded across the floor. Brendol’s boots thumped above and then there was the sound of further yelling. Half an hour later the master himself went to the kitchens to dismiss the staff. All except for her.

That night he forced himself inside of her. She elected to not remember it.

She did this for all the nights that succeeded this one. She forced herself to forget how she attained the bruises or the bite marks that sometimes marred her collarbone or her breasts. With cold washcloths she nursed the bruises until they transformed from purple to a sickly yellow and green hue.

Everyone talked, even the servants. Rumors swirled that she was consenting to the relationship with Brendol. She never spoke about it to anyone. She didn’t even mention it to her sweetheart when he came to call on her at her proper home. It was her own fault; clumsiness in the kitchens or her master had dogs which were quite feral hounds. They were weak lies but she needed to believe them herself. To not believe was to face the fact she could not fight in the way she wanted.

She had tried to. She resisted to the best of her ability. But he knew everything. For a man with his own ambitions and plans, he had a wide knowledge of the personal business of his staff. He knew of her family and their predicament. One act of rebellion against her and they would be dead. They and her sweetheart would be nothing more than skeletal remains in the Arkanisian oceans. They would be swallowed whole by the beasts and fish that roamed those waters. Brendol would force her to watch. He would ensure her obedience and submission to him.

So she closed her eyes and she forced herself to forget. She thought of the beautiful blond man to whom she had given her heart, but who would never love her now. She grieved the end of their relationship but clung to the hope that this would end and they would reunite. All storms ended and the sun would inevitably show again. If it did on the dreary planet of Arkanis, then her personal storm would end and the sun would rise.

Five months after Brendol had first begun forcing himself upon her, she felt the first changes. Her breasts were tender and swollen. She had begun to feel nausea with no relief and her muscles had weakened. Her stomach had swelled slightly but there was a definite lift to it. Dizzy spells plagued her but none interfered with her work yet. She wondered if it was sickness. She prayed it was not pregnancy.

One day, the world briefly went black and her head hit the hard stone floor. It had broken the skin of her forehead and blood had begun to creep out of the wound. She knew not what had happened until she woke propped against a fellow woman’s chest. The personal doctor of the Huxes had been called and Maratelle was none too pleased. Her husband was at the Academy for the day and when he returned, he did so to a furious wife and a bruised servant girl.

She was carrying his child. So easily, said the mistress, had he gotten a common bitch pregnant when he could not seem to give his wife the pleasure of conceiving. The argument had begun right there and there was no escape from it. Her mistress’s sharp hand attacked her face time and time again but Brendol showed no emotion. In fact, he seemed rather inconvenienced and furious. The perspective did not change when his wife stormed to her private study for the rest of the evening.

He had grabbed her hair in his hand and growled how he could no longer have her. At least until it was confirmed the child was viable. There were ways men could have their fill of women while they were carrying children. She would see to it that the child in her belly would survive. This was, perhaps, the only way Brendol Hux would have a surviving heir. If the child died due to her negligence, her head would fall.

She was expected to work. Simply because she was pregnant with Brendol Hux’s child did not mean her work was alleviated. In fact, she believed her work was increased due to the fact the commandant’s seed was implanted in her womb.

Two weeks after the discovery of her pregnancy, she began being seen to by medical droids. They found she was ill with fever and recommended to the commandant that she be placed in her private room. For the sake of the child and her own health, she needed to rest in an area free from disease and from stress. Stress. That was a laugh. Were she not afraid of the punishment, she would have laughed in Brendol’s face.

Were she not afraid of punishment, she would have ended the pregnancy the moment she could. There were plenty of medicines and herbs around the kitchens that would terminate a pregnancy. She’d often heard tales of women who had died that way. Death would be preferable than to go through with the delivery of this child inside of her.

Three weeks after the discovery of her pregnancy, another kitchen worker caught her making a tea from a root that would induce bleeding and abort the pregnancy. The glass broke and she threatened to end the woman’s life if she told. She couldn’t go through with this. If she told the mistress, she would be condemning two lives.

Mistress Maratelle only regretted that she could not give her the beating she deserved. It was for the good of the bastard in her womb. It was lucky that Brendol wanted this pregnancy to thrive. The mistress suggested she be moved from the Servant’s House to somewhere more comfortable for the duration of the pregnancy. This was a shock to her system. It made her feel sicker than she had ever felt before. For once, she wished she had been beaten rather than extended a burning olive branch.

Her new quarters were a guest room on the third floor but Maratelle had seen the richness stripped away to its bare bones. Now the bed was enough for a singular person and the bedding was quite bland. Not that she minded. If there was any good that came from this predicament it was that she had her own rooms and Brendol no longer touched her.

She was in her fifth month of pregnancy when she found out. The sixth month brought further concern in two regards.

Though her health had improved, the growth of the baby was shown to be stunted. He was smaller in size and his lungs were not developing as they should. It was impossible to do anything about it, said the droids, and they recommended she rest as much as possible. Soon her days were to be spent completely in bed or with as much resting on her feet as she could. Maratelle simply would not allow her to relax due to the fact she was carrying a bastard.

Maratelle had, in fact, made it a point to remind her how her child would never be legitimate. Even if it grew to succeed Brendol, it would never be seen as anything more than a bastard that should never have been born.

It was remarkable how Maratelle and Brendol referred to the child as ‘it’; that is, if they referred to him at all.

In her heart of hearts, she knew the child was a boy. Something clued her into the fact when she found out about the life growing inside of her.

At first she truly did not want the baby. She distanced herself mentally from the thought that there was something growing inside of her womb and that _something_ was the spawn of Brendol Hux. It would grow to be him and all the worst qualities about him. Even she referred to him as an ‘it’ for the first month after the discovery. But soon the child began to move inside of her. It was loathsome at first and she hated the feeling of her insides being stretched about as much as she hated vomiting the contents of her stomach, or lack thereof.

She began to think of him as ‘him’. When her hand pressed against her swelling stomach, she was met almost immediately with movement toward the hand. Though he was weak in development she felt his strong kicks and his precise movements at certain times during the day. He would nestle to the right side of her body in the morning and slowly coordinate himself to the mid-left of her abdomen by the middle and end of the day. At night he gave her some relief as he barely moved. She was grateful for the relief on her resting hours.

He seemed to be able to tell when she was stressed. Her anxiety became his own and he fluttered about inside her womb painfully. When she was weary, he too became weary. Once he was too quiet and she had to be monitored by medical droid to ensure he was not dying. He wasn’t dying but he was resting more than he should.

His lungs were growing somewhat stronger and it was a comfort. She realized in her seventh- and-a half month that he was her only companion in any of this. He was the only one who stayed by her side.

She no longer saw her friends from the kitchens. Yes, they still worked side-by-side but none of them spoke to her. She had fucked the commandant, they said, and dishonored the mistress. It was a rumor that Maratelle seemed content to let buzz about the various rooms and ranks of servants in the estate. Even those who worked in the yards glared at her with anger and hatred as she was made to take mandatory walks out on the property.

The child in her womb was the only one who was on her side. He understood her emotions and reflected them. In her quiet moments, she even spoke to him. It wasn’t as if he could speak to her at all but she believed his movements were a sort of response. It alleviated the cloud that had settled over her.

Even in the rain, she took walks on the property through the wooded area. The child needed the fresh air and sitting too long for hours would not help her deal with the changes her body was going through. Maratelle insisted the walks were accompanied. A droid lingered far behind her as she walked through the woods and breathed in the oxygen provided by the lush forest.

She was at her happiest when she reached the natural lake at the edge of the property. A tree had fallen down and been used as a sort of seating area. She would sit her weary body at the lake’s edge and look out over the waters. She began to relish these walks. It alleviated much of the pressure and it got her away from the main estate house. Brendol could not, and would not, touch her here. Maratelle wouldn’t dare follow her. The droid did nothing but observe her movements.

The child seemed to like it as well. Every breath she took she could feel him relaxing inside of her or moving gently. She wondered if the fresh air was helping his own lungs. She wondered many things about the little boy growing inside of her.

Would he have her hair? Would it be brown to the point where it was almost black? Would he have her blue eyes or his father’s green that she had grown to hate? When he was born, would he be the exact copy of her or of his father?

That man had no right to call himself a father. There was no way a person as cruel as he would think tender thoughts about a baby or treat a new life with care in the way she was.

Some days she felt nothing but unconditional love toward the child in her womb. Other days, more than she would care to admit, she hated that her life now only mattered to bring him into the world that had never desired him in the first place. He was not meant to have been conceived. His father hadn’t dreamed about him and chosen her to be the mother because he loved her. He fucked her because he could and he wanted to. He didn’t stop to think that a new life could be conceived because he wanted to fuck a woman who couldn’t say no.

Then she wondered how she could hate this baby? This baby had no choice either. Neither of them could say no and be listened to. Her hands began to cover her swelling stomach more and more as if she could protect the little one growing inside. Her tender thoughts aimed toward him and only him. Only this little one deserved it.

She would dream that he looked like his father. He was thin and slight, like her, but he had flaming hair like the man who helped create him. His eyes were soft in shape but inside his pupil and iris held the fire his father so often projected. She would dream that he stood tall and commanding and that he yelled. His voice wasn’t guttural but it ripped from his throat as he commanded over armies. Her dreams would often turn into these nightmares. He would grow to take on the worst qualities of his father. He would be cruel, he would be vicious, he would hate and destroy everything he touched. He would ruin lives and bring damnation and destruction upon all those he met. He was his father’s son and there was too much of Brendol Hux inside of him.

But when she woke to tears on her pillow and her hand went to the fluttering in her belly, she remembered that this child had been the only one to treat her softly. He took care of her and she took care of him.

The day of her labor came suddenly and much too early. The liquid passed between his legs so suddenly that it almost took her breath away. Immediately, almost as if she somehow knew, her hand went under her skirts and between her legs. Blood had mixed with the liquid and there was pain. It wasn’t the labor pains, she found out, but it was a warning seemingly from the child himself. Nothing was certain about his birth.

His heart rate was low and he was panicking. Through her own pains and her own moans, she managed to hear from the droids that the baby was struggling to breathe. It was too early for his birth. She had three more weeks until the pregnancy would have been considered full-term. The concerns about his lungs would have been discounted at that time.

Now they were speaking about cutting her open to get the baby out. She remembered screaming no and the baby moving frantically in presumed agreement.

Her cervix was not dilating fast enough. The pain was blinding. She wished and prayed and wished and prayed for the baby to survive. She could not feel him any longer. Where was the baby? Was he still breathing? Was he fighting? He could not abandon her now. She regretted every moment where she wished he had died.

She regretted wanting to take the root tea or thinking how her life would be better if the pregnancy miscarried. In her blinding pain she saw the face of her beloved. She hadn’t seen him in months. She was hallucinating his voice. He sounded so lovely as he told her it would all be okay. It would all be okay. _He_ would be okay.

He didn’t cry when he was born. It should have worried her but her body rushed its natural pain relief to her brain. Her eyes were half open and half closed while the droids and human doctors busied themselves with the newborn.

Neither Maratelle nor Brendol were in the room for the birth. Good. She had relished the privacy and space away from the ones who had forced her to go through with this ordeal.

It shocked her that the doctors placed the cleaned and crying baby back in her arms. He was swaddled in white blankets and unceremoniously placed in her arms. Trembling fingers pulled back the hood the blanket provided to look at the pink newborn in her arms.

He was so tiny; tiny to the point that she wondered if a being that size had truly caused her that much physical agony both during the pregnancy and hours long delivery. Wet hair was matted against his head but she could see that it was red. Red hair like his father’s. His eyes were closed and he was crying. He couldn’t stop crying even though he was resting in her arms. Without even thinking, her fingers uncurled and touched his lips. That is when his eyes opened and her heart broke.

Green eyes. Again, like his father’s. But these eyes did not hold the coldness of life nor the cruelty of a man hungry for power and domination. These eyes were new. These eyes stared at her as if she was the most beautiful creature in the galaxy. His mouth slowly closed over her fingertips and he began to suckle. He was hungry. Something in her clued her into the needs of the infant that was looking at her in a way that stripped her to the bone.

Her instincts instructed her to bring the child to her breast and allow him to feed for the first time. Tears crawled down her face and she knew she would give her life for this little one. Everything in her body ached to give him whatever he needed. She was crying out to serve him and to keep him safe. She felt him suckle at her breast and drink his fill. He was so tiny and fragile. He was, after all, early to this world. It seems he couldn’t wait to meet it. Oh, she wished he had waited his entire life. She wished he never had to know any of it.

Brendol entered and immediately ordered her to stop feeding him. This was her first act of rebellion. She would not. **_Her_** son was hungry and he needed his mother. Brendol had been quick to correct her as she spoke of being the baby’s mother. She had been quick to reply that Brendol had not been the one to give birth to him. Had she not just delivered the heir Brendol desired, she was certain that he would have punished her.

The baby was taken away from her after the feeding to be weighed and measured. She heard the statistics from her bed. He was five pounds and three ounces. She had been right; he was so small. Her heart cried for the little one. She longed to hold him again. She asked to hold him.

Something in her womb began to contract and move painfully. She was administered with a medicine that was meant to ease the passing of the placenta. She had never been through pregnancy and delivery before but she knew her body well enough to understand when something was wrong. The hours after the medicine was given, hours after the placenta had been delivered, she knew something wasn’t right. She was still bleeding but it wasn’t anywhere close to normal. Her breasts were painfully full and she begged for the baby to be given to her. The baby needed to be fed. And a name. He needed a name. He was all but a day old and he needed to be named.

She had almost dreamed his name. It was the perfect one for him. It would rival his father’s and for good reason. She understood the moment she saw him that he would grow to be better than his father or Maratelle could possibly dream of. 

Two days passed and the bleeding did not let up. She developed a fever despite the constant injections by droids and doctors. Her condition was failing. She had not been permitted to feed the child from her breast and she had to be milked as if she were a common beast. It was humiliating.

Maratelle asked the doctors when she could be let back into the kitchens. She couldn’t hear what the doctors told her mistress but she understood from the smug look on Maratelle’s face that it was not the answer she would want to hear.

Her only request was that she was able to see the baby. Not to feed him, not to touch him, but to see him.

It was the first time she had seen him in nearly three days. She could barely focus on his tiny, bundled form as he was pushed in by a droid with a small pram. Was no one holding him? Who was caring for him? Who was loving him?

He was asleep when he came within her view. She begged for the pram to be lowered so she could touch him. Not hold him, she assured Maratelle as the woman stood by the doorway, but just to touch his hand. His hand was the softest she ever had touched.

Fine red hair decorated his head. It wasn’t too much; in fact, it was already brushed down by a smooth hand. At least they were treating him gently. He seemed to respond to her pale finger touching his small knuckles. His eyes opened and the beautiful green eyes appeared to her again. He was beautiful in every way.

She no longer felt pain between her legs. Everything was growing numb now. The fever raged through her bloodstream and threatened to overtake her at any second. All thoughts were on her baby. Would he be able to sense any of it? Would he remember this? The thoughts were ludicrous and made no sense, she realized, but she dismissed the observation immediately the moment his small fingers closed over hers.

She asked what his name was. There was no reply. No name for this little one. They hadn’t even picked his name.

The name was breathed life from her lips. Armitage. His name was Armitage.

His eyes stopped searching and focused on her as she spoke. He recognized his name. More likely he found something to focus on but she allowed herself to believe he recognized the name he was given.

It was grander than Brendol. It was better than Brendol. He would be better than Brendol, her Armitage.

His father was cruel. The woman his father was married to was cruel. Everything they had done led to this moment. They were both the victims of cruel people. But she could no longer feel the hatred. She would not permit her son to feel that hatred. Not now, at least, when she could see him one last time and let him hold onto her for one final time.

She prayed her son would have a long life. She prayed he would be loved and find love that he deserved. She did not know the plans life would have for her Armitage. The only thing she did hope for was that he became a better man than his father.

With her dying breath, she prayed that something inside of him would be good.

_Be good, my son. Be strong, be good._

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: sehn----sucht.tumblr.com
> 
> I recommend listening to "The Danish Girl" soundtrack while reading this. Tracks to put on repeat: "The Mirror" and "Lili's Death".
> 
> This is a prequel of sorts to my fic "Expatriate" but I also like to think it's one of many possible stories of Hux's mother. Barely anything is known about her and this is just my take. I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments.


End file.
